


A Good Boy

by Outis_of_the_Cave



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Atmospheric, Dialogue, Gen, Gothic Horror Inspired, Hickey is Hickey, Magnus Manson is both clueless and insightful, Oneshot, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 04:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15111578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outis_of_the_Cave/pseuds/Outis_of_the_Cave
Summary: Magnus Manson and Cornelius Hickey discuss Sir John Franklin's untimely death.





	A Good Boy

  

Magnus Manson stares out at the bleak, nocturnal expanse over the gunwale and thinks.

 

He’s never bothered himself with thinking, much. That was for the surgeons who sewed men up;  for Captain Crozier and his officers who told the men what to do and the _Terror_ where to go. But Magnus has been thinking alot lately, and none of his thoughts have been pleasant. Not in the least.

 

The ice speaks to him. The pressure ridges that spring up overnight, the roaming seracs, and the countless outcrops circling the ship all cry out in an eternal groan. Light from the dancing colors in the sky (there was a special name for that Magnus couldn’t remember) reflects from jagged surfaces and cause shadows to dance across the frozen ground all around him. Poor _Erebus_ is out there too, somewhere, the silhouette of it’s mast all but indistinguishable against the glaciers on the horizon. The hull of this ship warps and moans, the deck seems to shift beneath his feet, and there is a low screech from where the ice scrapes against the starboard side. The ice is _alive_ . Magnus imagines the _Terror_ lodged into the back of a great animal arching its back.

 

Magnus once shared his concerns with Ice Master Blanky but the older man only laughed-telling him of how even though none of them could see it, the ice was moving and the ships were too. The ice was being squeezed by titanic forces and this caused it-as Magnus described in his own words-to cry out. It was all easy to believe in, for a time. Blanky was oddly silent during the funeral on the ice earlier in the day.

 

Magnus wraps his arms around himself-careful not to touch the metal barrel of the shotgun slung on his shoulder-and awkwardly shuffles around, stamping his feet. He’ll get in trouble if he loses a toe or a finger. Might even get his grog ration taken away.

 

_Sir John died today, and your worrying about drink?_ Magnus stops and frowns, suddenly ashamed of himself. A cry sounds off in the distance and he wonders if Sir John had time to cry before… before… Magnus unconsciously steps backwards and bumps into something. Going for his shotgun, he wheels around and is met with mocking eyes twinkling from the depths of a narrow gap between scarf and welsh wig. Cornelius Hickey, the little caulker’s mate.

 

“Spooked, Magnus?” he says softly, his voice muffled by the layers around most of his face.

 

“Your supposed to be on the port side, Cornelius,” says Magnus.

 

Hickey stirs uneasily and points his mittened index finger upwards. “Port…” He waves his finger around as if he could conjure the answer like some magician. “Let me see, port…”

 

“Left,” Magnus reminds him. For an experienced sailor Hickey sure did have trouble finding himself around. When they first set sail in ‘45 (it was that long ago?) Magnus had to constantly remind him where the orlop deck was.

 

“Thanks, mate.” Hickey’s eyes seem to gleem in the dark and Magnus can imagine his perennial grin taking shape under the scarf. Hickey is nice but...strange, Magnus decides. _Hickey always smiles but he is never happy_. Hickey makes no move to go where he is supposed to go. “I caught you wool gathering, didn’t I?”

 

“I’m on watch,” Magnus replies woodenly.

 

“I caught you thinking, is what I meant.”

 

“Oh.” Magnus turns round and returns to his position by the starboard gunwale. He hears footsteps behind him and can feel Hickey’s presence at his back. Even though he should be, Magnus is not annoyed by the shorter man’s attention. Magnus knew that Hickey had a falling out with his very, very good friend Gibson, and so, must be feeling very lonely. Still, Magnus wants his grog ration when he goes below so he tries to do his job when Hickey does not. Magnus glances around but does not see Lieutenant Irving, this night’s Officer of the Watch.

 

“You were thinking about the _Creature,_ weren’t you Magnus?” Hickey persists.

 

Magnus nods. “And about Sir John and the ice and _Erebus_ and… a lot of things,” he whispers.

 

“Poor Sir John,” says Hickey in a voice that suggests he could really care less what had happened to the expedition leader. That was another strange thing about Hickey that Magnus did not understand, he always said one thing while really not believing in it. “Went from the man who ate his boots to the man who had a big bastard bear tear off one of his boots.”

 

“Only one?” Magnus asks. He wasn’t at the scene of what was now being called in clandestine whispers among the other able bodies below decks as the _massacre_.  

 

“Yeah,” Hickey is at Magnus’ side now and pretends to grab an invisible object. “Picked ‘em up, and carried ‘em to the firehole, then,” Hickey, in an act of near suicidal bravado (Magnus can imagine _the thing_ leaping up and crushing Hickey's head in it's jaws with a wet  _smack_ ), leans over the gunwale and drops his pretend object, “plop, just like that, and during all the commotion one of his legs fell off...or was torn off. Like a chicken leg. Dunno what happened to the other.”

 

“H-how do you know?” Magnus is shivering and it is not because of the cold. He had assumed they buried Sir John’s whole body. Like when he and Hickey buried poor David Young on that windswept spit of gravel.

 

There is a gleam in Hickey’s eyes as he rolls his head around. He always had a way of knowing things and Magnus had spent many nights in his hammock listening to Hickey whisper to him the latest gossip. “A very good sir let it slip to me. Found him all flustered and nervous over what had happened ‘cus he was there, practically told me the whole story.”

 

Magnus doesn’t quite get it but believes every word Hickey says. “So they only buried, the-the leg?”

 

“That’s right, mate,” Hickey replies cheerily.

 

“That’s not right,” Magnus declares in indignation. “Sir John is...was...real God fearing like Lieutenant Irving, he wouldn’t have wanted just his leg buried.”

 

Hickey shakes his head and Magnus imagines he can see the corners of his smile over the scarf. “Sir John will just have to hop on over to the pearly gates,” he says before spitting over the side-his spittle freezing in midair. “Saint Peter will give ‘em a peg leg.”

 

“Sir John’s still down _there_ , Cornelius, _under the ice_.” Magnus remembers the cry from the wastes and imagines poor Sir John’s ghost. Floating around the dark void, not knowing which way was up or down and maybe even going down _deeper_ into the ocean, so far down Sir John’s spirit can never find its way back up again. Magnus is shivering wildly now and his shotgun shakes on its shoulder sling, dully thumping against his broad back. _Only company Sir John has is that Eski man and Sir John wouldn’t like being with a heathen, and the Creature… Is that down there too?_ He hears another muffled groan from the ice and he imagines Sir John down there. Alone in the dark and looking for his lost leg. “It's not right.”

  

Hickey seems to be taken aback by how decisive he sounds. Usually Magnus just goes along with whatever scheme Hickey has in mind. The caulker’s mate looks down the deck and says, “The holy boy’s on his way, gotta go left... port side.” Hickey rests a hand on his shoulder before heading off. Such a nice man, Magnus thinks, and he is happy to have the little petty officer as a friend. Hickey is always patting his shoulder and laying his hands on Gibson and all his other very good friends on board. Why, Magnus even saw Hickey slapping Sergeant Tozer’s back, a marine!

 

When his watch ended, Magnus headed below decks and received his well earned grog ration. The diluted rum went down easily and soon warmth replaced the numbness in his limbs. Mr. Diggle’s stove roared and the cook’s angry shouts at his helpers were oddly reassuring.

 

Magnus lays in his hammock, as warm and snug as a man could be in this godforsaken wasteland. The body heat of all the sailors and the flames from the stove makes the lower deck feel like an oven.

 

But this did not stop Magnus from frowning, for far down below him was Sir John Franklin, trying to find his way in depths where the sunlight never reached. The _Terror’s_ timbers shrilly protest against the ice that holds it in a stranglehold and in spite of the high pitch it sounds like a man’s voice.

 

Magnus covers his ears and shuts his eyes.   

**Author's Note:**

> My first story put on here so it might sound rough. 
> 
> The original idea for this was that Magnus would pay his respects to Sir John in his own little way and that this would be the start of that story. However, after sitting on this for a while, I started to like how this looked as a short, moody one shot instead. Still, I might make this a start of a series but there’s other things I want to do first. Like modern au Magnus watching Ghost Adventures and not getting gobbled up :( 
> 
> The next piece that will come out is a kind of character study centered around a certain pond. One of these days I will write something cheery, like a kind of modern au.


End file.
